Death Call by T S O'Rourke Page A

their house, well, it was their duty. She poured a coffee for Carroll, who sat down on the leather sofa. It made an embarrassing noise.
     
    ‘It’s a noisy old thing, isn’t it?’ Samantha commented.
     
    ‘Yeah, noisy.’
     
    ‘Well, what more do you want to know?’
     
    ‘You both have alibis to say that you were at work on Monday morning, so it appears you are in the clear. I just want to know if any of these names seem in any way familiar to you....’
     
    ‘Go on,’ she said.
     
    ‘Joanne McCrae?’
     
    ‘Was that the dead girl?’ she asked.
     
    ‘Just answer the questions, please.’
     
    ‘No – I’ve never heard of her. Have you, Willy?’ William didn’t like being called Willy in front of other people, it seemed.
     
    ‘No – the name means nothing to me. Who was this woman?’
     
    ‘What about the Towcester Hotel, in Piccadilly?’
     
    ‘You did an interview for a job there last year, didn’t you, Willy?’ Samantha said, nodding her head.
     
    ‘Erm, yeah, last year. I haven’t been there since, though....’
     
    ‘What about the name Smith?’
     
    ‘What about the name Smith?’ William replied.
     
    ‘Do you know anyone of that name?’
     
    ‘Doesn’t everybody?’
     
    ‘No, Mr. Gibson.’
     
    ‘Look, there’s very little else we can help you with, detective, and our dinner is getting ruined....’
     
    ‘There is one thing,’ Samantha said. ‘I found an earring in the vase on the mantelpiece last night, when I was cleaning. It’s not one of mine. It had blood on it. Maybe it belonged to the woman who was killed?’
     
    ‘Do you have it here?’ Carroll asked.
     
    ‘Yes, I put it in one of those freezer bags we have – you know the ones... I thought it might be best....’ Samantha went to a drawer by the TV stand and got the earring.
     
    ‘Great,’ Carroll said taking possession of the see-through bag. There was blood on it all right – and a little lump of flesh. It looked like it might’ve been ripped out of someone’s ear, and Carroll couldn’t remember seeing any marks on Jo Mac’s. If the ring belonged to the killer, then maybe, just maybe, there would be fingerprints on it. But how the hell did it get into the vase on the mantelpiece?
     
    Carroll looked at Mr. Gibson with his second pair of eyes, and found no obvious trace of fear. He did, however, have black hair, was in his thirties and had a sallow complexion. It was worth a shot, he thought.
     
    ‘Did you sleep here on Sunday night, Mr. Gibson?’
     
    ‘Yes.’
     
    ‘Are you sure?’
     
    ‘What do you mean am I sure?’
     
    ‘I mean, you didn’t go away for the weekend on business or pleasure by any chance, did you?’
     
    ‘We were here all weekend Mr. Carroll,’ Samantha said. ‘William’s parents came to visit. They went home to Cornwall on Sunday evening.’
     
    ‘Fine,’ Carroll said, ‘that’ll be all for the moment. If I need to talk to you again, I’ll give you a bell beforehand. I have your home number here, but I don’t have your mobile number, Mr. Gibson....’
     
    ‘That’s because I don’t have a mobile....’
     
    ‘Very well, thanks again for your help,’ Carroll said, closing his mind to the possibility of William Gibson being John Smith.
     
    Samantha Gibson smiled as she closed the door. She seemed like a nice woman. Not at all unpleasant, as their ageing neighbour had suggested.
     
    Grant had been ringing telephone companies in an effort to find out who owned the phone whose number he had been given by the hotel receptionist, Emma. On his third call, he struck lucky. The telephone, a scrambled line, was owned by a man called O’Brien. James O’Brien, from Manchester. The phone company gave Grant the details they had on him, including his address and credit card account number, telling him when the phone was last used, and from where.
     
    It seemed that James O’Brien was back in Manchester. He must be a salesman, Grant thought,